


Trick or Treat

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Costumes, Halloween, Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Halloween and, thanks to all the pills he's on, Will's struggling to tell the difference between dreams and reality~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trick or Treat

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will & self beta'd.  
> ~ A Halloween fic, basically. I appear to have this self-imposed 'tradition' of writing somewhat 'light' Hallween fics involving costumes and pop culture references, and... This just happens to be this year's offering.
> 
> ~ Please. Enjoy.
> 
> (And... HAPPY HALLOWEEN, of course!)

===========  
Trick or Treat  
by TalithaX  
===========

I've never, not as a general rule anyway, been that great a fan of having to take any form of medication or pain relief. The reasons for this are twofold. Firstly, if I'm having to pop pills or, worse, am so far gone that I'm having to have the stuff injected in to me, it means that I'm either unwell, in pain, or, and let's not beat around the proverbial bush here, staring death in the face. So, you know, there's a couple of huge negatives right there. Secondly, there's the sad fact of life that medication doesn't exactly agree with me. Penicillin causes me to come out in some sort of hybrid – think a combination of Mumps and Chicken Pox, only... bigger, redder, and all over – rash, Ibuprofen gives me heart palpitations, and Morphine... Don't even get me started on Morphine. It gives me hallucinations that are so graphic and bloody in their intensity that they make the most explicit and gratuitously gory of horror movies look like little more than a My Little Pony musical.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge admirer of modern science and the breathtaking discoveries that are still being made the world over in regards to both medicine and treatment. Let's face it, I suspect everyone I know – and, yes, I include myself in this less than charming statistic here as well – is probably only still alive today because of both the treatment they've received and what they've had pumped in to them in the past.

Hell. Take right now for example. The only reason I'm even out of the infirmary and sprawled not entirely comfortably on my own sofa is because of both the treatment I received while I was in there and the collection of pills they made a very deliberate point of sending me home with. Pills to stave off infection. Pills to make sure I don't develop a blood clot. Pills to aid the healing process. Pills to numb the pain emanating from just about every inch of my body. Just about you name it and I suspect I've currently got a pill for it. Their bottles are spread out over the coffee-table in front of me and, taking the doctor's threat to drag my battered ass back in to the infirmary if I don't follow his drug regime to the letter seriously, I'm nothing if not... trained to perfection... in terms of shovelling them dutifully in to my mouth whenever they're due. My phone being a far better keeper of time at the moment than I am, it beeps at me and tells me what to take when I'm due my next fix and, liking my living room considerably more than I do the cold, sterile, and boring infirmary, I'm swallowing the pill even before the alarm has finished beeping. 

Now, while I mightn't know if it's courtesy of the specific combination of pills I'm on, or whether, as they're the ones I take by far the most of, it's simply the painkillers on their own, but, for the first time ever, I'm actually... liking... the effect they're installing in me. And, no, I'm not just talking about how they're keeping the pain to a more or less comfortable minimum either as that, after all, would have to go without saying. Despite – miracle of miracles – nothing being broken, the overly thorough beating I received from Stanton's pet muscle did such a number on me that I actually zoned out on the doctor while he was running through what struck me as my never ending list of injuries. Sprained. Fractured. Cracked. Concussion. Substantial bruising. 

It, a bit like the fight, really, just went on and on and on.

At the risk of sounding big headed, I'm actually usually pretty good in a fight. I train hard, have the seemingly innate ability to quickly size up my opponent and hone in on their weak spots, and, out of the team, I'm recognised as the one most likely to be still standing when it's all done and dusted. I don't particularly like it, and God knows I'd never do it for actual fun, but, like everything as far as I'm concerned, it's one of those things that, if it's got to be done, then it has to be done to the best of my ability. Stanton's pet though? Seriously. That bastard was an anomaly of the like I've never encountered before. Not only was he so huge that Benji's code name for him over the radio was 'Hulk', but his fighting style seemed part WWF, part Jackie Chan, and part... who fucking knows. 

Being the – lucky – one tasked with providing the diversion to let Jane get cleanly away with the package, I tried to take it up to him, I really did, but it was just futile. At no point did I even so much as fleetingly achieve the upper hand. No. I just took it. Blow after blow, kick after kick. He even, and I remember this a little too clearly for my liking, picked me up as though I weighed next to nothing at one point and threw me on to the bonnet of a car. Ethan, who made the judgement call to deviate from the plan to rendezvous back at base in order to both come back for me and lodge a bullet between the fucker's eyes, claims that from what he could see I was holding my own, but, really, I think that's only be because he's trying to be nice to me. Certainly from where I was standing or, as the case was far more likely to be, crawling at the time, it didn't feel like that at all. I was just his punching bag, and if Ethan hadn't materialised when he did...

Well.

As not even modern science would have been able to scoop up what was left of me and successfully put me back together again after the Hulk had finished having his fun, I...

Wouldn't still be here.

End of story.

Ethan saved me, and, for a nice change, the concoction of pills I'm on are not only keeping me pleasantly numb, but they're also providing me with a rather... gentle... collection of enjoyable dreams. Instead of having nightmares or sleeping the drug induced slumber of the dead, the dreams I keep having as I sleep by far the majority of the day away are just...

Nice.

They really are.

Mixing a recognisable amount of reality with both humour and perhaps a little bit of wishful thinking on my part, they're actually shining a warm glow on what is otherwise a fairly shitty time. I hurt all over, can't really do anything other than either sleep or sit around feeling sorry for myself, am missing out on a party that I'd actually really been looking forward to, and, to put it perfectly bluntly, I'm just all a bit over it. Needing positives wherever I can find them though, the dreams are somehow helping get me through. I wake up, usually courtesy of another reminder beeping on my phone, with them both fresh in my mind and with a smile tugging on my lips.

Take, for example, the one I had this afternoon. Combining just enough reality with a... story line... that struck me as being only too – viable – believable, I really did just feel like a voyeur sitting back and spying in on an actual event. Everyone was there, they were behaving just as I would have expected them to, and, again, it really did just strike me as feeling astonishingly real.

And funny.

Make that, really, really funny.

Today – if my airy-fairy grip on time hasn't let me spectacularly down, that is – I'm fairly certain just happens to be Halloween and, because it's tradition, IMF is holding a no-expense spared party for everyone from the Director down to the already creepy looking janitor. Costumes, an open bar, decorations that get more and more creative and out there every year – it really is an all out event that's easily a highlight of the limited IMF social calendar. It's also a time for everyone to just let their hair down and socialise, and because of this it's something that's always much looked forward to by a large number of staff and, not to put a too fine a point on it or anything, it really is just fun. Simple, old fashioned fun, and, given the dark, hectic world we've all chosen to base our career in, what it also just happens to be is... endearingly innocent. While I'm indifferent to the candy-coated consumerism of Halloween, don't much care for dressing up in costumes, and would be hard pushed to care if it forever disappeared from our calendar, I've nonetheless always enjoyed the party and had, until my run in with the Hulk put paid to it, been looking forward to it.

Just not, however, as much as Benji had been looking for it.

Benji, who – for reasons known only to Benji – decided that it'd be like... the bestest idea ever... if the four of us dressed up in... matching... costumes.

Like... Star Wars... costumes, for example.

He claimed – wrongly, I might add – that it would be... cool.

He also claimed that the sole driving force behind his... great idea... was because he had a hankering to go as Han Solo. Personally, and the way he blushed and babbled excuse after excuse when I had the nerve to raise this certainly didn't do anything to help his cause, I think it was because he was hoping to convince Jane that, why, yes, she really did want to dress up as Slave Girl Leia. But, you know, whatever. It's not as though we don't all have our fantasies and... if Benji's brave enough to try to bring his to reality then, seriously, more power to him.

Jane, not exactly surprisingly here, did not, however, want to have a bar of it and Ethan, who appears to be far more of a closet Star Wars fan than I ever would have expected, found the idea of Benji going as Han Solo so – offensive – hilarious that he just had to hit him with the fact that he thought, all things considered, he'd actually be far better suited to Luke Skywalker.

As in... the farm boy, pre-Jedi, whiny, dorky one in the poncho, version of Luke Skywalker. 

Benji, not seeing the humour in this that the rest of us were – laughing at – seeing, took offence at Ethan's take on his... lack... of having what it would take to carry off Solo's swagger and, with a miffed sounding sniff, abruptly declared that he'd already gone off the Star Wars idea anyway and that, as far as he was now concerned, we could all go as... whatever we 'fucking liked'.

Only...

In my dream, not only hadn't he gone off it at all, but he'd also managed to get his way in regards to Jane wearing the Slave Girl outfit.

So, there they all were at the party. Jane as Leia, Ethan – oddly enough – as Han Solo, and... while there was probably a very good chance that Benji would have had his nose truly out of joint about this, no one would have have been aware of it as his expression was completely hidden by the fact he was dressed as...

C3-PO.

And, if that in itself wasn't amusing enough, he was so mortified by the way that just about everyone at the party was staring – as though transfixed – at how much flesh Jane was flashing, he, with much, awkward waddling around in his funny little golden metal suit, took it upon himself to cover her up.

With a cape.

That he stole from Darth Vader.

Who, under the mask, was actually the Director.

It – C3-PO mugging Vader, Leia scowling in a big black cape, Han looking as though he was in danger of cracking a rib from laughing so much – was just hilarious.

Not to mention... 

… Strangely believable.

I mean, there... is... a party tonight. Benji... had... raised the idea of Star Wars costumes. And, well, I just really don't think it's much of a stretch at all to say something along those lines could so very easily have happened.

So...

It was believable, and fun, and had just enough in common with reality for me to accept that...

… What I'm currently staring at is simply another dream.

A Jack-O-Lantern, perfectly carved and lit by a flickering candle, sitting on my coffee-table.

And Ethan, holding what looks to be a black and purple plastic bowl of candy, standing behind it.

Ethan, who's wearing...

Something, really, really, strange.

Oddly spectacular, granted, but strange. Definitely strange.

And quite unlike anything I've ever seen before.

In fact, I don't even know where to begin to describe it, let alone just why it is my subconscious has chosen – out of all the far more... interesting... things it could have chosen – to inflict it on him.

I...

I just really don't know where, or even... how, to start.

With the navy blue frock coat that appears, unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, to be made from a sort of crushed velvet? Or perhaps the fact that both it, and the waistcoat underneath, are covered in flashy looking gold brocade? Or maybe the ever-so-delicate-and-frilly lace cuffs peeping out from under the sleeves of the coat? Then, of course, there's the somewhat brilliantly white socks and navy blue... knee breeches to take in to consideration as well, and...

Yeah.

Spectacular, and... odd, and...

… I don't get it.

I may... perhaps, just maybe... be able to see something in the cut of the coat or in the tightness of the breeches to... again, perhaps, just maybe... appreciate the peculiar ensemble on some hitherto unknown level, but...

What the fuck?

The Jack-O-Lantern makes sense because it's Halloween.

Ethan makes sense because... it's Ethan and it's not as though I haven't dreamed about him before.

His outfit though?

Nope. Not getting it. While I can grasp the fact that it has to be a Halloween costume, what I can't make any sense of whatsoever is why it isn't...

Well. Seeing as, let's face it here, it's my dream, why there isn't... far less of it, basically.

But... Whatever. It is what it is and I suppose I just have to sit back and go along with wherever this decidedly weird ass dream is going to take me.

“So... Trick or treat!” Ethan exclaims as he places the bowl down on the coffee-table and flashes me an embarrassed, possibly even tentative looking smile.

“Uh...” Struggling into a slumped sitting position that causes every fibre of my body to issue forth with a silent complaint at having been made to move, I look him up and down and because, dream or not, I really do just have to know, murmur, “What on... earth... are you wearing?”

“You just had to go there, didn't you,” Ethan mutters with a shrug as he glances down at his outfit and grimaces with obvious distaste. “Of all the things you could have gone with, you just had to go with...”

“Hey. As I'm sure you should well and truly know already, I'm a firm believer in... you'll never know if you never ask,” I interrupt. “So, come on. What gives with the... uh... out there outfit?”

“You know, I could pretty much ask you the same thing,” Ethan counters as, smirking, he gives me an appraising look from under an arched brow. “I mean, you do realise, don't you, that they were just meant as a joke? That... no-one, not even Benji, ever expected you to actually wear them. ”

“Uh...” I glance down at the pyjamas I'm wearing and note with no real surprise whatsoever that even in my dream I'm wearing the same – black cotton, and adorned with mini Jack-O-Lanterns – pair that I distinctly remember putting on after my shower this afternoon. Granted, they're not my usual style and, regardless of whether Ethan believes me or not, I do actually know that the only reason Benji gave them to me in the infirmary was for a joke – or alternatively, given the way they all but begged me to wear them while I was there, something to keep the nurses entertained with – but, thanks basically to the fact that they were the only clean pair I had with me downstairs, I'm wearing them and that, really, is all there is to it. They may not have been my first choice, but beggars not being able to be choosers and all that, they're covering the black, blue and purple mess that currently makes up most of my body and, well, if Ethan doesn't like them then that's his problem, not mine.

“They were a joke,” Ethan repeats, giving me an odd look as his smirk slips and he steps around the coffee-table to stand a little closer to the end of the sofa “Will? Are you okay? You're looking a bit...”

“Out of it? Drugged to the eyeballs? Off with the fairies?” I offer with a small shrug. “Look. If it helps put your mind at ease in respect to just what it is I might like to wear in the privacy of my own home, the reason I'm wearing Benji's... delightful... Halloween pyjamas is because they were the last clean pair I had in my bag and, as far as I'm currently concerned anyway, making my way upstairs to get another pair would have been akin to climbing Mount Everest in a pair of stilettos, so... There you have it. No, I haven't regressed to feeling like I'm six years old, and, trust me, if you knew what they were covering you'd just be thankful that I hadn't simply waved the white flag of defeat and collapsed back here naked.”

“Uh...” Looking, although I quickly put it down to just being a figment of my imagination, for all the world as though he's – suddenly, not to mention randomly, feeling all hot and bothered – blushing, Ethan runs his fingers through his hair and feigns fascination with a random spot on the wall above my head. “I... Uh... Clearly I dodged a bullet there, then,” he mumbles. “I mean... Uh... Finding you naked, that...”

“Probably would have seen you running, screaming, from the room,” I finish drily. “Seriously. I'm telling you now that you wouldn't want to see it as, and you really do have to take my word for this, it's not pretty.”

“I... Uh...”

“But anyway, enough of the unpalatable topic of my naked body,” I mutter, gesturing at Ethan as, still looking somewhat red in the cheeks, he reluctantly glances down at me. “Although I have to congratulate you on your attempt to change the subject, let's get back to the small matter of just... whatever... it is you're wearing. I know I'm only dreaming, but, come on, spill.”

“Dreaming? What? Uh... Never mind.” Looking, it just has to be said, relieved to be back on what must be striking him as firmer, less rocky ground, Ethan straightens his shoulders and bows grandly. “Now... If I remember correctly here... Lestat de Lioncourt at your service.”

“Uh...” Well. There you go. Unexpected, granted, but... Whatever. 

“Again, if I remember what Benji was babbling at me, he's a...”

“Where are your fangs?” I interrupt as, deciding to just go with the flow here, I look pointedly at his mouth.

“You...” His eyes widening in surprise, Ethan shakes his head. “You know who, or perhaps more to the point... what... this Lestat creature is?”

“I... I do read, you know.”

“Vampire novels?” he queries dubiously. “Really?”

“If that's all there was available then, yes, even vampire novels.”

“Huh?”

“Don't forget that I'm old enough to have spent a lot of time in transit before both laptops became de rigueur and in-flight entertainment actually became, well, entertaining.”

“Sorry, I think I'm missing something here and...”

“You know. Stuck in an airport with a long haul flight staring you in the face and, in desperation, grabbing just about the first book you came to before heading to the departure gate...”

“Uh...” He frowns and shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

“You can sleep anywhere though, can't you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I can't, and that's why I always had to have something to read.”

“And again I say... Even vampire novels?”

“Spy novels and crime not really offering me a great form of escape,” I mutter, “yes, even the occasional vampire novel.”

“Uh-huh... Fair enough,” Ethan replies, looking either far from convinced that this is a conversation he's wanting to be a part of, or just plain confused at just what it is he's found himself in the middle of. “Uh... At least, I suppose, you know who he is.”

“I do,” I confirm. “I know that Lestat is a vampire, and... What I also happen to know is that he should have blond hair, so...” I look at him expectantly. “Where's your wig?”

“As it looked as though it had actually been made when this sort of outfit was all the rage,” he retorts, wrinkling his nose in what could well be revulsion, “it, like the... truly evil plastic... fangs, are in the bin.”

“Oh.” 

“If you'd seen it you wouldn't have put it anywhere near your head either.”

“So... Lestat.” I mean, of course. Of all the things he could have dressed up as in my dream, he's... an over rated and somewhat dated vampire from a series of novels that I probably read twenty years ago. I'm sure it makes sense to... someone. Somewhere. But... Speaking for myself here anyway, nope, I've got nothing. “Uh... Dare I ask... Why?”

“Because Benji apparently thought it would be a good idea.”

“Oh...” If at first you don't succeed, keep at it until you're satisfied, right? “But... Why? Why Lestat?”

“That's something you'll have to ask Benji yourself,” Ethan mutters with a shrug as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa and scowls down at his velvet clad knees. “Wanting to make up for the whole... Star Wars... disappointment, I made what I now know to be a stupid mistake by telling him he could choose everyone's costumes and... this... is what he came up with. I could have killed him when I saw it, but, uh, having brought it on myself, I just... gritted my teeth... and sucked it up.”

“Oh...” Fair enough. I suppose. I mean. Lestat. Why not? “But... Jane. What did he end up choosing for Jane to wear?”

“Wanting, or so I got the impression anyway, to move as far away from Leia's barely glorified bikini as he possibly could, he... wait for it... hit her with a Scarlett O'Hara costume...”

As amused by the thought of Jane dressed as Scarlett as I am by Ethan being forced to dress up as Lestat, I can't help but both laugh... and wish that I'd seen it for myself. “Oh...”

“Mmm... Oh.”

“Bloomers, and hoops, and...”

“Don't forget the bonnet. The... huge... bonnet with the nice, tight bow under her chin.”

“Bet she was... impressed.”

“So impressed, in fact, that she's already told Benji that she's choosing his costume next year and that, yes, he'd be wise to be afraid. Very... afraid.”

“Would it be wrong of me to say that it probably serves him right?”

“Not at all.”

“And... Benji? Dare I ask?”

“As it's almost the very definition of ironic, please do.”

“So... Benji? What did he go as?”

“Captain America,” Ethan states with a perfectly straight face. “Our resident Englishman went as... Captain America. And... No. Before you ask, I have no idea what possessed him either.”

“But...” Shaking my head as I fail to come up with any sort of reasonable mental image of Benji dressed as Captain America, I look at Ethan and although I open my mouth in the hope of coming up with something... suitable... to say, absolutely nothing comes out.

“Stunned silence,” Ethan mutters, rolling his eyes. “You pretty much got it in one.”

“Uh... Was it... pre-serum?” I query hopefully.

“Nope. Full stars and stripes.”

“Oh.”

“You can't picture it, can you?”

“I'm trying, but... No. I really can't.”

“Well try this then... You know Matt from the gym?”

“The... man mountain?”

“Uh-huh. That's the one.”

“What about him?”

“He went as Captain America as well.”

“Oh...” Knowing what Ethan's going to have to say next, I pull a face. “Don't tell me, let me...”

“He and Benji met by the buffet, and... It was at that exact moment that I knew I just had to get out of there.”

“Captain America and his British... Mini-Me?”

“That's one way of putting it.”

“And to think I'd actually been looking forward to the party,” I murmur, glancing at Ethan out of the corner of my eye as, holding firmly on to the belief that as this is my dream I can do whatever I want in it, I inch slowly closer to him. “I'm fairly certain that I probably shouldn't ask, but... If the Hulk hadn't... uh... smashed... me, what exactly had Benji planned to inflict on me by way of a costume?”

“You're right, you don't want to know,” Ethan replies, watching me both closely and with obvious interest as, with all the speed of a crippled snail, I make my way over to him.

“But... You're going to tell me anyway, right?”

“If it helps at all, your pyjamas are still a better look than what Benji had planned for you.”

“Uh...” This dream... Seriously. It's making my earlier one with the Star Wars costumes in it seem positively... normal. “Maybe I don't want to know after all.”

“You really don't, but... It was a suit. Some sort of horrible suit from the Seventies. Wide lapels, flares, polyester...”

“A... Seventies suit?” I mutter as, having finally made it to Ethan, I curl my legs up on to the sofa and slump against him with a sigh of contentment. “From... what? That movie that was set in the Seventies? You know, the one that despite having a whole lot of Oscar nominations didn't go home with a single award...”

“You could be forgiven for thinking that, hey, at least that would have made a degree of reasonable sense, but... No,” Ethan responds, giving me a funny look before, with both a shrug and a slight smile, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Apparently there was some... back to the future or... uh... something like that... instalment of the X Men franchise that was set in the Seventies this year and that, apparently, is what both caught Benji's attention and... what he was going with.”

“Oh.” Of course that's what he was going with. “I think I'll stick to my pyjamas,” I murmur blandly as, emboldened by the feel of his arm around my shoulders, I set about making myself as comfortable as I'm capable of at the moment against Ethan. He's here, and he doesn't seem to be complaining about how, liking the feel of the velvet beneath my fingers, I'm all but kneading his chest like a cat so, you know... Why not make the most of the – dream – moment? “Now... I know you said you decided to take your leave before... uh... the Captain Americas... decided to face off, but...” Pausing, I look up at Ethan and flash him a tentative smile. “Why... Why are you here?”

“You'd...” Frowning, Ethan sits up a little straighter and clearly hesitates over removing his arm from around my shoulders. “You'd rather I... wasn't here?” he queries in an odd, possibly even... hurt... sounding voice. “Just... If you don't want me here and would prefer to be on your...”

“Did I say I'd prefer to be on my own?” I retort, cutting him off as, wanting him to get the – subtle as a sledgehammer – hint that I don't want him to go anywhere, I curl my fingers around the front of his waistcoat and rest my head down on his shoulder. “I... I'm just curious, that's all. I thought you'd been looking forward to the party too, and...”

“Had,” Ethan corrects, relaxing back against the sofa. “I... had... been looking forward to the party. That, however, was before your run in with the Hulk, Benji's choice in costumes, and the knowledge that if I didn't bail when I did there was a very good chance I was going to have to witness two idiots clashing plastic toy shields together.”

“Oh... But... Why here, huh?” I protest weakly. “I... I mean, look at me. I'm no fun. I can't drink because of the concoction of pills I'm on. Hell, making it to the bathroom and back is enough to exhaust me, and...”

“And yet I'm still exactly where I want to be,” Ethan whispers, closing his hand around my upper arm and gently pulling me closer. “Will, I... From the moment the party was first mentioned and I saw your enthusiasm for it, I only ever wanted to spend Halloween by your side. So... Here I am. Knowing that the Secretary was expecting me there, I put in an appearance at the party before slipping away as soon as I could and coming straight over here. When you didn't answer the doorbell I started to have a few doubts, but... Well... Seeing as I was already here I just decided to... uh... break in anyway with the pumpkin and candy I... liberated from the party, and...”

“Here you are,” I finish quietly as, marvelling at how my dream seems to be playing out even better than if I'd been able to script it myself, I tilt my head back and gaze up at Ethan through eyes that suddenly feel as though they're struggling to stay open. “I... I know it's only a dream...”

“A dream?” he echoes, giving me a puzzled look. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because... I'm asleep, and...”

“No you're not. You were asleep when I arrived, but...”

“I'm asleep and this is a dream,” I mutter stubbornly. “You're at the party enjoying yourself while I'm asleep on my sofa and dreaming of a reality that... isn't...” Sighing, I look down and rest my cheek against the sofa velvet of Ethan's frock coat. “That... can't... be...”

Just...

Of course it can't be. Even though I know it's only a dream, what I also know is, and damn my overly-developed logic streak here, that it's simply wishful thinking on my part.

Ethan's here, holding my battered, pyjama clad body against his, because...

… It's what I want.

It's what I want more than anything.

I want Ethan and, some things just going hand in hand, I want him to want me in return. He just brightens my life in ways I never really contemplated another person ever could and, despite knowing that I'm lucky to both work with him and be able to count him as a close friend, I really do want, and have for months now, more. I look at him, and I imagine his hands on my bare flesh and his lips pressed against mine, and...

Want.

It all comes down to simple... want.

I just...

… Want him.

I want Ethan.

Which, never having had any reason to believe he sees me as anything other than a colleague and, hopefully, friend, is why I know beyond all doubt that this is nothing other than a – very pleasant – dream.

“But... Why? Why can't it be real?” Ethan queries both softly and somewhat matter-of-factly. “I'm here, with you, because it's where I want to be. It... It's the... only... place I want to be and, unless I'm only hearing what I... want... to hear here, I'm getting the impression that it's what you want as well...”

“Dreaming,” I mumble as, no longer able to keep them open, I close my eyes. “This... All of it. It's just a dream...”

~*~

The sadly familiar sound of my phone beeping its annoying tune waking me, I know, and this is even before opening my eyes, that the alarm is telling me in no uncertain terms that I'm due my next dose of painkillers. And the reason I know this is – pretty damn simple, really – because I hurt. I hurt all over. Not having moved for however long I've been asleep for, my body has stiffened in to an unnatural position and the pain coming from my ribs in particular is so great that even breathing hurts. Being far more reliant on the painkillers than I care to admit to, I always know about it when I'm due my next, regular as clock work, dose, but the pain I'm in right now is even worse than usual and, not wanting to so much as consider that I may have been too hasty to leave the infirmary, the only reason I can think of for this is the odd position I must have fallen asleep in. Instead of lying on my side with my back pressed against the sofa and my face mashed into a mound of cushions, I appear to be half-sitting, half-slumped against what I can only assume is the arm of the sofa, and...

Yeah.

Not good.

If the dream I'd been having before the phone woke me was real, the reason I'd be in this strange position would be because Ethan was holding me against him, but...

That was just a dream.

One that, as it apparently happens, I decided to add just that little bit of extra realism to by pressing myself up against the arm of the sofa.

The arm of the sofa that...

… The last time I looked was actually made of leather, not of soft, crinkled...

Velvet.

Just...

No.

Surely not.

It was a dream.

Like the Star Wars themed one before it, Ethan leaving the Halloween party to be with me, it...

… It had to be a dream.

Right?

“No one being able to sleep through that damn beeping, I know you have to be awake,” a familiar voice announces softly. “Oh, and... before you feel compelled to ask the obvious. No. You're not dreaming.”

I'm... not?

My eyes flying open, I blink the decidedly odd sight of bright gold brocade and navy blue crushed velvet that I'm resting my head against into focus, and...

Just don't believe it.

I want to.

Of course I do.

But...

… Really?

“Not... dreaming?” I mumble with an award winning lack of originality as, not really knowing how to react, I put up no resistance to being both slowly and gently pushed into a more upright position. “I...”

“No. You're really not dreaming,” Ethan replies as, turning my head with some effort, I find him looking at me with a concerned expression on his face. “I really am here, I really... am... wearing this stupid costume, and, from the look of you, you really are in pain, so... Don't move, don't over think the situation, and just tell me what I can get for you.”

“I...”

“Your phone. It beeped for a reason, yes?”

“Yes, but...”

“If this really was a dream, would you be in this much pain?”

“Uh...” Unable to argue with the logic of Ethan's question, I give a slow shake of my head and fail dismally in my attempt to dredge up a wan smile. “When you put it like that...

“So... You're due some pills, yes?”

“Mmm...” I gesture weakly at the collection of pills spread out next to the still glowing Jack-O-Lantern. “The painkillers. I... I know I shouldn't be so reliant on them, that... that I should just suck it up, but...”

“You don't have to suck anything up,” Ethan interrupts as he leans forward and retrieves both the painkillers and a bottle of water from the coffee-table. “You're in pain, Will, and no-one's going to begrudge you relief, so... Here.” Handing me the bottle, he tips two of the small white pills out in to the palm of his hand and, once I've taken a mouthful of water, hands them over to me. “Take these and we can talk more once they've kicked in.”

Nodding, I swallow the pills and, once Ethan has taken the water bottle back off me, relax against the sofa. “Sorry,” I whisper. “First I accuse you of only being a dream, and... and now I'm... zoning out and pill popping on you.”

“And yet, oddly enough, I still can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be,” Ethan replies with a small shrug as he returns both the pills and the water to the coffee-table before settling back on the sofa and peering at me closely. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything else?”

“I...” Sighing, I rest my had back against the top of the sofa and close my eyes. “I'm fine. I... I just need a couple of minutes for the pills to start to work, that's all.”

Echoing my sigh, Ethan shifts closer to me and, after what feels like a second or two of hesitation, carefully drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I hate seeing you like this,” he murmurs thickly. “I also hate knowing that there isn't anything I can do to help...”

“You... Just by being here you're... doing more than you think,” I whisper as, despite the pain it causes me, I lean against Ethan and rest my head on his shoulder. “But... Please...”

“Shut up and leave the pills to work their magic?”

“I wasn't going to be so blunt, but...”

“It's okay, Will. Better late than never, I've got you and I'm not going anywhere...”

Liking the sound of Ethan's statement too much to want to risk ruining it by replying, I remain silent and concentrate not on the beyond surprising situation I appear to have – genuinely – found myself in, but on the feel of the pills as they slowly begin to numb the pain. I could dwell on Ethan's presence, or mentally berate myself for having been so firmly convinced that his arrival in my living room was nothing more than a dream, but, to be perfectly honest, I just don't want to. I don't want to question the gift I appear to have been given and I don't, as – knowing me too well – Ethan mentioned, want to over think things.

I...

I'm not dreaming.

He's really here.

And... I'll take it.

It's unexpected, and it's glorious, and it doesn't even matter that I have no idea where it could all be leading.

Comfortable both with the silence and the reassuring weight of Ethan's arm around my shoulders, I empty my mind of all thoughts and just focus on the much needed sensation of the pain slowly leaving me. Quick acting pain relief being something the IMF infirmary have pretty much perfected, it thankfully doesn't take too long for me to be feeling a little bit more... normal and the second I realise that it's no longer hurting me to breathe I both sigh with – heartfelt – relief and open my eyes.

“Better?” Ethan, with a hopeful smile, immediately queries. 

“Better,” I confirm flashing him a cautious smile in return. “I'm not saying I'm in a great rush to move any time soon, but... Better. Definitely better.”

“Good. Now... You're believing this is real, right, and not a dream?”

“I...” I nod. “It... still feels like a dream, but... Apparently it's not, apparently it's...”

“Real,” Ethan finishes with another smile. “I'm not saying it's not a little odd for me too, and I'm still firmly of the opinion that the less said about what I'm wearing the better, but... Trust me, Will. I really am here, and it... it really is because it's where I want to be.” Pausing, he tightens his arm around my shoulders and, to my delight, plants a quick kiss on the top of my head. “I know my timing leaves a fair bit to be desired, and God knows I wish you weren't like this, but, Will, I don't want to put you on the spot or anything, but given what happened to you I... I can't just keep it to myself any longer. You... You've gotten under my skin and I want, that is, if you're interested, of course...”

“Of course I'm interested,” I interrupt just a little breathlessly as, still not really having it in me to do – what, needless to say, I'd really quite like to do – much, I rest my hand flat against Ethan's velvet clad chest. “I... You're right. Your timing isn't great, but, unlike me I might add, at least you found it in yourself to lay your cards on the table, and I... Ethan... You... You have no idea how much I want to give this a go, how much I... want, and have for months now, you...”

“In that case...” His face lighting up in a brilliant smile, Ethan winks at me and, all the time keeping his arm around my shoulders, gently pulls me a little bit more upright. “Do you remember what I asked when I first arrived?”

“Uh...” Although I'm not entirely sure where he might be going with this, I nonetheless nod and press myself up against his side. “Trick or treat,” I murmur, resting my hand down on his thigh and curling my fingers around the seam of his breeches. “When I woke up, when I... still thought I was dreaming, what you said was.. Trick or treat.”

“And?” he prompts, his smile brightening as he waits for me, I think, to catch up.

“Well... Seeing as what we're both wearing would easily have to count as a trick already,” I murmur. “Treat... I think I have to go with treat...” 

“That's what I was hoping you'd say,” Ethan states as, bowing his head, he presses his lips lightly against mine and kisses me tenderly for what truly feels like a long, delightfully drawn out moment before pulling back and grinning at what I just know has to be a dazed expression on my face. “So... Treat, yes?”

“Mmm... Treat. Definitely a treat...” Really cursing my battered body for not currently being – no pun intended – up to the idea of things progressing how I'd like them to, I plant a quick kiss on Ethan's cheek and, already feeling as though I'm in need of yet another nap, once again rest my head down on his shoulder. “Now... This isn't a dream, right?”

“Not a dream, no.” Stretching his legs out in front of him, Ethan rests his feet on the edge of the coffee-table and, looking me in the eye, slowly shakes his head. “More a promise of things to come...”

~ end ~


End file.
